


%$@#$%&!*

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt:</b> soap bubbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	%$@#$%&!*

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navlasha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=navlasha).



Dean was nine when it happened: was cranky from the long ride and pissed with John about missing his favorite cartoons for the fourth time in a row. John asked him to carry two of the bags to the room while he wrangled Sammy, and Dean scrunched his face into a fierce glare and said, quite clearly, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

John took a moment to think that through—tired himself and not sure he’d heard his son right—and then said, “Excuse me?” He kept his voice calm. Quiet.

Dean shifted a little nervously under the weight of his gaze, but the defiant expression on his face didn’t so much as twitch. “I _said_ , fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

John’s chest seemed to swell with an impotent anger at that: he didn’t like this any more than Dean did, damn it. Didn’t want to be hauling his kids across the country like this, or be sleeping in seedy motels and eating at crappy roadside diners that gave him food poisoning as often as not. That, of course, was the moment Sammy picked to wake up. Instantly scenting something wrong in the air, he screwed his face up and started crying.

The hostile mask of Dean’s face slipped a little. His eyes went to his brother—concerned, obviously wanting to reach out—and it was that glance more than anything else that helped John take a step back from the situation and put everything in perspective.

Instead of turning the boy over his knee right there in the parking lot, he just said, “Go into the bathroom and wait for me.” When Dean didn’t move, he added, “You really don’t want to piss me off any more right now, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes widened a little at that— _not so tough after all, are you, partner?_ —and he turned tail and ran. John took his time soothing Sammy. Spent a few minutes outside with him, gathering their things together and cleaning out the accumulation of four days worth of trash from the car.

Gave Dean what probably felt like an eternity to think over what he’d done and what John was going to do about it.

He expected the boy to be more than a little nervous when he finally went into the bathroom, but instead he found Dean kneeling on the sink with the faucet running hot as it could go. He was writing swear words across the mirror in the steam—in three different languages, the little shit—and although he’d obviously heard John come into the room, he didn’t pause in his efforts.

Kid had balls, John had to give him that much.

He grabbed Dean by the shoulder, lifted him off the sink and dropped him down onto the side of the tub. “Stay,” he snapped, and for a wonder Dean did. It took John another two minutes to wash off the soap—he wasn’t gonna trust anything in this rat hole to be clean—and then he turned back to his son with the sudsy bar in one hand. “Open up.”

Dean eyed the soap suspiciously, but obeyed. Let John shove the bar between his teeth and didn’t even have to be told to bite down.

“Now,” John said as Dean sat there with his mouth full. “You listen up. I’m not having that talk from you. You’re angry at me? Fine. Be angry. But you use that language again and you’re gonna land right back here, kiddo.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got five minutes. Then I’ll come back and we’ll see if your attitude’s improved at all.”

John headed out into the main room, and spent the five minutes remembering when his old man had pulled the old ‘wash your mouth out with soap’ bit with him. It hadn’t taken him long to get the message. Stuff tasted like crap.

When he finished watching the long hand on his wristwatch slide from 5 to 6, John heaved himself up out of the chair and headed back into the bathroom. And the came to a dead stop just inside the door.

Dean was on the sink again, peering into the mirror with the soap firmly clenched in his mouth. There was a bubble about the size of a softball coming off the end of the bar. It popped and John jumped a little, bringing Dean’s eyes up to his in the mirror. Dean’s lips stretched into a smirk around the soap and a new bubble slowly began to form.

Little punk was blowing bubbles at him.

John lasted all of five seconds before he burst out laughing.

So round One went to Dean. Rounds Two and Three did as well, and pretty soon John had lost count of the number of things he tried to get Dean to stop swearing at the drop of a hat. He even called Missouri and Ellen Harvelle, Bill’s wife, for advice. Got a ‘he’s _your_ son, John; _you_ handle him’ from the one, and an earful of laughter from the other.

And then, right when he was at his wits end, Dean just … stopped. For no reason whatsoever.

Swear to God, one day that boy was gonna be the death of him.


End file.
